


Snakeskin Boots

by Sani86



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Falling In Love, M/M, Sad, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sort Of, Strangers to Lovers, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26731480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sani86/pseuds/Sani86
Summary: “I lost someone,” Aziraphale said, by way of introduction. “Someone who was… very dear to me.”Very dear did not even begin to describe his relationship with Crowley, but then, it had never been something he could put into words.~~~~A GO Human AU which is sad, but ends on a happy note.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 74
Kudos: 113
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a week or so obsessively listening to Welly Boots by The Amazing Devil (Please, please, please go listen to it:   
> [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UErTIqZ8gyE ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UErTIqZ8gyE)). This is the result.

“I lost someone,” Aziraphale said, by way of introduction. “Someone who was… very dear to me.”

_ Very dear _ did not even begin to describe his relationship with Crowley, but then, it had never been something he could put into words.

“It’s been… a while, now.”

Six years. Almost to the day, not that he was keeping track (he was - six years, thirteen days). 

Six agonising, painful years, subjectively stretched out into six millennia of loneliness. Time hadn’t been a healer in his case; no, time was just a vehicle for torture.

“I’ve been…ahem.” He cleared his throat, swallowed against the sudden knot. “I’ve not been coping with it so well.”

Again, the understatement of a lifetime. Losing Crowley had ripped him apart, left him nothing but a bloodied mess of broken pieces, and he hadn’t been able to stitch even two bits of himself back together again.

“So I guess I’m hoping to find… some closure. Some way to move on.”

He had to. Even though it felt like a betrayal of Crowley’s memory, of everything they’d had together, he knew he couldn’t go on like this. It would destroy him, body and soul.

The therapist leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled under her chin. Her eyes were curious, but kind.

“Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a perfectly ordinary Tuesday. Nothing about it suggested that his life was about to change forever. But that’s what life did, right? Just when you thought you had things under control, it would blindside you with passion or pain or joy like you've never known.  _ Oh, you think you’ve got me all figured out? _ the universe seemed to say.  _ Well, guess again, buddy. Bet you didn’t see this one coming. _

If there were a god, they certainly had a strange sense of humour. 

Anyway. On this perfectly ordinary Tuesday, Aziraphale had woken up at 7am, as he always did, gotten dressed in his usual shirt-waistcoat-and-bow-tie combo, enjoyed his habitual two cups of tea and toast with jam over the morning paper, and opened up the shop at 8:30 on the dot. 

The morning had been fairly routine, a few distracted customers looking for the latest bestsellers (which he did not stock - really, which part of  _ Antiquarian and Unusual Books _ was unclear?) and an old bible he’d picked up at an estate sale a couple of weeks ago and was meticulously restoring. 

At lunchtime, he locked the shop (grabbing his umbrella, since London’s perpetual cloud cover was turning a threatening shade of grey), and like he did every Tuesday, set off to the sushi place a couple of blocks away. They had a lunchtime special on Tuesdays, and Aziraphale was probably their most reliable customer. 

His lunch was scrumptious, as always, and he lingered over it as long as he dared, but alas, time waits for no man. He had a shop to reopen. 

Stepping outside, he smiled in vindication as he put up his umbrella against the drizzle. It wasn’t really raining hard enough to necessitate it, but Aziraphale did so hate getting wet. He had the umbrella with him, so why not use it?

He was glad of it a few minutes later when the rain suddenly started bucketing down. 

“Oh, bother,” he muttered as he drew his coat tighter with one hand, bringing the umbrella low over his head to shield himself as best he could. The shop wasn’t far now, just around the corner and maybe fifty metres down the street. He picked up his pace, eyes fixed on the ground in front of him, with no goal in mind but to get to his destination as quickly as possible. 

Which is why he didn’t see the other man, rounding the corner at speed, and ended up barreling right into him. 

“Oh,  _ fuck! _ ” The other exclaimed as he teetered backwards. He would’ve landed on his arse in a puddle of dirty rainwater if it weren’t for Aziraphale’s hand shooting out to grab him by the forearm, pulling him upright and into the shelter of the umbrella for good measure. 

“Oh my goodness!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I’m dreadfully sorry! Are you alright?”

“‘ssss fine,” came the hissed response. “Fucking sssoaked either way.”

Only then did Aziraphale take a good look at his assailant/victim: skinny, dark-haired, wearing sunglasses for some unfathomable reason - and absolutely drenched. The man could not be any wetter if he’d jumped into a pool with his clothes and all. 

“Oh, my goodness. You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks,” the other bit out. “You really know how to build up a guy’s ego.”

“Oh, hush, now,” Aziraphale chided. “I just meant that you’re soaking wet. It can’t possibly be comfortable.” He was struck by an idea. “You should come and dry off. Come along, now, I’m just over there.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the shop. 

The other man let himself be pulled along until he was standing in the foyer of the shop, shivering and dripping on the hardwood floor. 

“Just wait there,” Aziraphale instructed, before scurrying upstairs to his flat to grab an armful of towels: one for him, one for his visitor and one for the poor floor. 

The towels helped a little, but not enough; the man’s clothes were still wet through, and Aziraphale could hear his teeth chattering. Well, that simply wouldn’t do. He couldn’t very well have a stranger dying of hypothermia in his shop.

“Come along to the back room,” he said, gesturing the way. “I’ll turn on the heater so that you can dry out a bit. And make us a cup of tea. Or maybe some hot cocoa? Just the thing to warm up.”

The man just nodded dumbly, following Aziraphale to the back and perching carefully on a chair. 

Aziraphale got the old gas heater going (he found it was a lot more effective than these modern electric things), made sure his guest had enough towels, and went off to make the cocoa. 

When he returned, he saw the other man had divested himself of his sodden jacket, hanging it over the back of a nearby chair to dry, and was crouched in front of the heater in the manner of a frozen traveler warming up at a campfire.

Aziraphale had to bite back a smile; the man had clearly rubbed the towel through his hair and it was sticking up in all directions. Now that it wasn’t quite so soaking wet, Aziraphale could see that it was lighter in colour than he initially thought, a deep reddish shade that was quite unique. Aziraphale wondered idly if it was dyed. He often got the same question about his own impossibly light blonde hair. 

Oddly, the man’s sunglasses were also still in place.

“There you go,” Aziraphale said, handing him a mug.

The man grabbed the mug gratefully, downing most of it in one long gulp.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he sighed happily. “You’re an absolute angel.”

Aziraphale laughed, glad to have put a smile on this taciturn stranger’s face. “I’m glad it helps. I’m Aziraphale, by the way. Aziraphale Fell. Might I ask your name?”

“Uhm. Crowley.” For some reason he seemed hesitant to share this.

“Well, Crowley, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Aziraphale beamed. “Shame about the circumstances, but what can you do. I hope you weren’t on your way to anything important?”

This innocuous statement seemed to shock the other man back to reality.

“Fuck.  _ Fuck! _ ” He jumped up, grabbing his jacket. “I have to go. Fuck!”

“But, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale protested. “It’s still pouring down! You’ll just get soaked all over again!”

“Can’t be helped,” Crowley mumbled. “Fuck, Hastur’ll skin me alive.”

Aziraphale had no idea who Hastur was, or why Crowley should be so frightened of them, but it was clear to him that nothing would make the man stay.

“At least take my umbrella, then,” he insisted.

“No need,” Crowley said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Please, I insist,” Aziraphale said, channeling all the authority he could into his voice. “You can bring it back when you have a chance. No rush.” He held the umbrella out to Crowley insistently.

“Okay,” the man conceded. “Okay, fine. And, um. Thanks. You know. For… all of it.” Crowley made a vague gesture that took in the heater, the little pile of abandoned towels and the half-empty cocoa mugs.

“It’s no trouble,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “You just keep yourself safe, okay?”

For some unfathomable reason this drew a sardonic laugh from Crowley. “Safe. Right, sure. Proper guardian angel, you are. Fuck, I have to go. I’ll… I’ll see you again, yeah?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Drop in whenever you like. But run along now, before you get into trouble.”

\--

If he were honest, Aziraphale hadn’t really expected to see Crowley (or his umbrella) again. The loss of the umbrella didn’t particularly bother him; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d given something away to a stranger in need. But he would rather have liked to see Crowley again. There was something intriguing about him. 

Which was ridiculous. He’d spent all of ten minutes in the man’s company, and didn't know the first thing about him. 

So he was more than a little surprised (and pleased) when Crowley showed up at the shop the next afternoon.

“Brought your umbrella back,” he said unnecessarily, waving the object in his direction vaguely (and nearly knocking a stack of books off the table next to him).

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale smiled. “Just pop it in the stand there by the door.”

Crowley did as he asked, but to Aziraphale’s surprise he made no move to leave, shifting nervously from foot to foot. 

“Listen, um, I’d like to thank you properly. Maybe I could take you out, for a, um, for a drink? Or something?”

Aziraphale beamed. “That sounds splendid.”

Relief flooded the other man’s features - or as much of his features as Aziraphale could see behind the still-present sunglasses. There was something incredibly endearing about his obvious nervousness. 

“Great. That's great. You, um, you free tonight?”

“Well, I have to keep the shop open for a few hours more, but after that I’m all yours.” Oh dear, that had come out a bit forward, hadn’t it? Probably, if the way Crowley’s ears were turning red was anything to go by. 

“Okay. Great. I’ll see you in a bit, then?”

They ended up going to a rather snazzy wine bar, after Aziraphale expressed his disdain for the mediocre booze and greasy food-adjacent items served by the pub down the road from his shop.

The wine was pleasant, and the company even more so, which is why drinks dragged on into dinner.

It turned out that once Crowley had a drink in him and relaxed a bit, he was absolutely delightful company. He was funny and sarcastic and witty, and had Aziraphale gasping with laughter several times in the course of the evening. More than that, he was clever. Aziraphale was an exceptionally well-read man (occupational hazard of being both a book lover and bookshop owner, he supposed), and for all that Crowley protested he  _ didn’t do books _ , he was able to hold up his end of the conversation on every topic Aziraphale cared to bring to the table, from Shakespeare to psychiatry. The fact that they had competing opinions on most subjects didn’t even bother Aziraphale; it just made the conversation that much more interesting.

Aziraphale didn’t even notice how quickly the hours went by until the waitress came to inform them that the kitchen was closing for the night.

“Oh, dear, I suppose we’d better be off, then,” Aziraphale said, not without a hint of sadness. He was enjoying his evening, and wasn’t really ready for it to end. It wasn’t often he found someone he could have such a good time with.

“Walk you home?” Crowley offered as they left, and Aziraphale certainly wasn’t about to refuse.

They ambled peacefully through the nighttime streets, chatting about this and that as they had been all evening.

“Wait, you  _ live  _ here?” Crowley asked, surprised, when they arrived at the shop.

“Yes, I have a flat upstairs..”

“Huh.”

“Well, it’s been a lovely evening, I must say. I would rather like to do it again, if you’re amenable.”

“You would?” Crowley had seemed disbelieving, for some reason.

“Of course. Your company is very pleasant, even if you are entirely misinformed on Shakespeare,” Aziraphale teased.

“Oh ho, I like that, from someone who prefers Hamlet over Much Ado.”

“Now, don’t start that again, or we’ll be at it all night,” Aziraphale laughed.

“Right. I’ll, um, see you around then? Yes?”

“I certainly hope so.”

\--

The next time Crowley showed up at the bookshop, it was with tickets to a Shakespeare in the Park performance of Much Ado About Nothing.

Aziraphale retaliated by getting them tickets to a RSC production of Hamlet.

After that, it started blurring together. Drinks, dinners, takeout lunch brought to the bookshop, concerts and galleries and walks in the park. Before long, they were spending several evenings a week together. More often than not they ended up in the bookshop’s back room, Aziraphale sitting primly in his favourite chair as Crowley sprawled on the couch in a tangle of limbs, snakeskin boots discarded on the floor but sunglasses still perched stubbornly on his face. Crowley claimed they were because he was sensitive to light, although Aziraphale suspected there was more to it, since the bookshop was hardly brightly lit, but he didn't push it. They talked and laughed and, over the course of several months, drank their way through half of Aziraphale’s wine cellar and a few excellent bottles of whiskey.

In an alarmingly short period of time, Crowley had become absolutely indispensable to Aziraphale. He had never had such a good friend in his life. Crowley fitted into his life like he’d been created to be there. It was perfect.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So you were... friends? Best friends, perhaps?” 

Yes, but also no. They were so much more than that. Aziraphale might use the term  _ soulmates _ if it didn’t sound so trite. But that’s what it felt like, to him. As if he’d found the other half of his soul, something he hadn’t even known was missing before he found it, but whose absence left a gaping wound that nothing had been able to heal.

“There’s a bit more to it than that,” he said, and continued the story.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had happened so gradually, he really couldn’t put a date or time to it. He didn’t exactly fall in love with Crowley; he sort of wandered into it without noticing. By the time he put a name to it, he was already in over his head, and had been for some time. 

It was the scarf that did it. 

They were on their way out to dinner, like so many nights before. 

“Pass me my scarf, would you?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to the blue-and-beige tartan thing draped over his chair as he shrugged into his jacket. 

Crowley didn’t hand it over. Instead, he leaned over and draped the scarf around Aziraphale’s neck, pulling the ends through the loop and smoothing them down carefully. 

“There you go, angel.” The nickname had made its way into Crowley’s regular vocabulary, mostly thanks to Azirpahale’s compulsive caretaking tendencies. He didn’t mind it in the least.

“Thank you, dearest,” Aziraphale replied, not really thinking about what he was saying.

“Whu-?” Crowley’s hands froze in place where they were still adjusting the scarf. “What did you call me?”

Aziraphale interrogated his recent memory. “Dearest?”

He couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes clearly - those infernal sunglasses - but the arch of his eyebrows suggested they were wide as saucers. He could guess why. Aziraphale called Crowley  _ my dear fellow _ often enough, and on occasion the  _ fellow _ even got dropped, but  _ dearest _ was on a whole other level of intimacy.

“I’m sorry, was that-” 

“No, no. ‘s fine. Just” Crowley shook his head as if trying to clear away an intrusive thought.

Aziraphale felt his heart melt a little. “You know, you are that, Crowley. You’re my dearest… friend.” That was the moment when he first realised that friend wasn’t really the right word, not anymore. Crowley meant far more to him than a friend would. 

Also, he didn’t usually find himself staring at his friends’ lips, wanting nothing more than to reach out and taste them. 

“Angel?” Crowley asked, and oh, his hands were still resting against Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Crowley,” he said, voice wavering, not quite sure what to say or do. “I… may I see your eyes, please?”

Crowley hesitated for a moment, he seemed to be debating with himself, but then he gave a terse nod. 

Aziraphale brought his hands up and gently removed the sunglasses. To his surprise, Crowley had his eyes screwed shut. Surely the light wasn’t that bad?

“Crowley?” he asked carefully. 

Crowley opened his eyes - and Aziraphale understood. His eyes were a beautiful dark-golden colour, the colour of amber or fine cognac, but the pupils were distorted in a strange upside-down teardrop shape. 

“‘s called coloboma,” Crowley said. “Fucking ugly demon eyes.” He reached out for his glasses, clearly wanting to cover them again. 

“No!” Aziraphale protested immediately. “No, Crowley, your eyes are lovely.” Unthinkingly, he brought a hand up to rest against Crowley’s cheek. “Please don’t hide them from me.”

Crowley blinked rapidly a few times. 

And then he surged forward and kissed Aziraphale full on the mouth.

Azirpahale didn’t even have time to respond before Croley was pulling away, cursing under his breath. “Fuck, sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have… I’ll go, Yeah? Pretend that never happened?”

Aziraphale grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t you dare,” he said, voice low.

“Angel?”

“Crowley.” Azirpahale took a deep breath. “I would very much like for you to do that again.”

This time, the kiss was soft, and slow, and sweet, and it continued until they were both flushed and out of breath.

“Well. That was just lovely,” Aziraphale said, happily.

“It was,” Crowley agreed. “We should do it more often.”

“Amen to that.” 

After a few more moments of happily stupefied silence, Aziraphale piped up: “So. Dinner?”

“All right,” Crowley chuckled. “But I wasn’t lying. My eyes really are sensitive to light. So I’ll need my glasses back if you want to go out.” 

\--

It was easy, so easy, for their relationship to shift from friendship to romance. In some ways, nothing changed: they still spent more evenings together than apart, still made time for eating out and theatre shows and walks in the park. Only now they held hands, and kissed every so often, and when they ended up back at the bookshop they no longer sat in the back room, but made their way up to Azirpahale’s flat.

That had been a big step. The flat was Azirpahale’s sanctuary. He’d never allowed a lover up there - it was too close, too personal, and he couldn’t allow his most intimate space to be haunted by the ghosts of men long gone. Even the few friends he had had never been upstairs.

But Crowley was different. It felt like he belonged in Aziraphale’s life, and he wanted nothing more than to let the man infiltrate every little corner of his existence.

“Shoes off,” he instructed as they stepped through the door, toeing off his own brown oxfords. “I don’t want you treading the whole of London’s rubbish into my carpets.”

It was a bit of a thrill, he had to admit, to see Crowley’s shiny black snakeskin boots lined up against the wall next to his more sensible footwear. It seemed… right.

Little signs of Crowley’s presence made their way into every part of Azirpahale’s home over the next few months, as Crowley made himself comfortable there. A jacket forgotten on the couch, a French press and coffee grounds in the kitchen (ghastly stuff; Aziraphale would stick to tea, thank you,) a spare pair of sunglasses on the bedside table. Black clothes mixed up with his usually pale laundry. It was as if Crowley was moving in, one item at a time.

Azirpahale wasn’t about to stop him.

He loved it when Crowley came over before he closed up for the day and made his way to the flat, loved coming home (if climbing one flight of stairs could be considered such) to a kiss and a cup of hot tea. A few times, Crowley even managed to sneak in without Aziraphale noticing, and the unexpected sight of his boots standing just inside the door never failed to make Azirpahale’s heart swell with joy.

Really, it was only a matter of time before he gave Crowley a key, not only to the flat but to the shop; the unspoken message being that it was also a key to his heart and his entire life. There was nothing he didn’t want to share with Crowley.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We were so happy,” Azirpahale remembered. “I mean, it had its ups and downs, you know. His job, especially, was a complete nightmare. His bosses, Hastur and Ligur, were simply awful. Well, I say that - I never met them, but I heard enough to know that I didn’t particularly want to.” Aziraphale suppressed a shudder at the memory of some of the things Crowley had told him.

“Sometimes he’d have to stay at the office until what ridiculous hour of the night, or he’d come home angry or depressed. He never took it out on me, mind you, but it was difficult, seeing him unhappy. ”

“It sounds like you really loved him,” the therapist remarked.

“I did. It was like a dream come true, you know? All those years, like a perfect fairytale.” The memories caused a fond warmth to spread through Aziraphale’s chest, followed by an all-too-familiar stab of sadness. He’d been without Crowley now for longer than he’d been with him, damn it! Why did it still hurt so much?

“If only it could have stayed that way,” Aziraphale said, his voice dying down to nothing. "But… I lost him. We lost each other. I don’t really know, to be honest. Point is… point is, he’s gone.”

He grabbed a fresh tissue from the box on the table, dropping yet another sopping wet one into the steadily filling wastebasket by his feet.

The therapist regarded him softly, her own eyes a little moist.

“What happened?” she asked gently.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was almost anticlimactic, really.

One night, Crowley just… hadn’t come home. Aziraphale tried calling his mobile, of course, but he just got voicemail. He tried the office, Crowley wasn’t there.

A little worm of worry began to gnaw.

By the time he went to bed - alone, for the first time in how many years - it had taken a sizable chunk out of his heart.

He got increasingly more frantic as the next day went by. Still no answer on his phone, still no luck at the office. When he closed the shop for lunch, he didn’t even bother with food (he felt too sick to eat anyway); he went directly to the police station to file a missing person’s report.

He may as well not have bothered. Crowley had disappeared so thoroughly, it was almost as if he’d never been. All they could find out was that Crowley had gone in to work as usual that morning, had left for lunch, and then, for all intents and purposes, had dropped off the face of the earth. Even his car, his most precious possession, was still in the office building’s car park. It was eerie.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

Months.

Every morning he would ring the police sergeant assigned to Crowley’s case, just to hear the same devastating news: still no trace of him.

As time went by, the woman turned from sympathetic, to irritated, and ultimately to a condescending sort of pity. 

“Mr Fell,” she said one day. “I know this is difficult for you, but… perhaps it’s time to let it go. After so much time… I don’t think he’s coming back.”

“I can’t,” he had answered, voice catching in his throat. “I can’t give up on him.”

“I understand,” the sergeant said kindly, “But we can’t keep this investigation alive indefinitely either. I’ve been ordered to close the case.”

“But we still don’t know what happened to him!” Aziraphale wailed.

“I’m sorry,” was all the sergeant could offer him.

\---

At first, Azirapahle refused to let it go. He couldn’t accept that Crowley simply wasn’t there anymore. He had to be  _ somewhere _ , right? Even if it was in Timbuktu, or at the bottom of a lake or something. This was London, for crying out loud, it’s not as if he could have been eaten by a lion. Maybe if he just searched harder, made one more phone call, sent one more email…

But it was never enough.

That’s when he got angry. Why did Crowley do this? Why did he just up and leave, with no warning, with no goodbye, ripping himself out of Aziraphale’s life and leaving nothing but heartbreak in his wake?

_ “I loved you!”  _ Aziraphale yelled at him, as if he could somehow be heard if he just shouted loud enough.  _ “I loved you, and I gave myself to you, I gave you everything, and you still left! You left me here, all alone. How the fuck am I supposed to carry on without you?” _ Tears were running down his face, anger and despair threatening to overwhelm him.  _ “I loved you, you bastard, and you abandoned me! It’s not fair! I hate this, I hate you!” _ He picked up the framed photo of him and Crowley that was standing on the nearby shelf and hurled it at the wall with all the force he could muster, watching in as the frame split and shards of glass went flying in all directions.

_ “Fuck it all,” _ he swore under his breath as he sagged to his knees.  _ “Fuck you and me and this whole stupid life. I can’t do this anymore.” _

But the next morning, after he’d cried himself out and had a few fitful hours of sleep, he swept up the glass and retrieved the photo, breathing a prayer of thanks that it was undamaged. He bought a new frame, and put the picture back where it belonged. He had to make it right. He had to, for Crowley.

\---

With time, he came to realise that perhaps it was true, perhaps he never would see the love of his life again. 

The thought was more than his heart could bear, poor battered thing that it was. Azirapahle had never loved anyone the way he loved Crowley, and he knew for certain that he never would again. That part of his heart was destroyed forever, ripped out and carried off to wherever his black-clad, redheaded sweetheart had gone. Lost forever to this world.

He shuffled through his days on autopilot. Opened the shop, talked to people when he couldn’t avoid it, sold more of his precious books than ever before because he simply didn’t have the heart to fight it. He ate when his watch told him it was time to; he no longer had an appetite and every meal tasted the same anyway. He lost weight, but not in the way that looked or felt good.

And every night he went home alone, numbed himself with wine or whiskey or stupid mindless television shows, hoping against hope that tonight he would be able to get more than a few hours’ sleep.

Every night he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, asking some invisible god  _ why, why, why? _

Only once the first year had passed, did he start to pack away some of Crowley’s things that were still lying around the flat.

It took another six months before he was able to box up Crowley’s clothes and store them under the bed (he refused to throw them out; he just wasn’t ready for that. Didn’t think he would ever be).

It took time. It took so much time, but eventually he started to feel like he could breathe again. Like maybe, just maybe, his life wasn’t entirely over.

Some days were harder than others. Birthdays, anniversaries, holidays - things they should have been able to share.

And sometimes it was just the small things. He would hear a joke, and think  _ O, I have to tell Crowley that one! _ \- only to be reminded all over again that Crowley was gone, he would never hear that laugh again, never see his eyes crinkle with mirth. He would find himself in the supermarket, noting that Crowley’s favourite brand of coffee was on sale, mourning the fact that he didn’t have to buy it anymore, and then buying it anyway just to enjoy the smell of it in his flat. Or when he sat on the couch after a rough day, nursing a monster of a tension headache, he would remember the way Crowley always massaged his neck and shoulders, worked his long fingers into the muscle there until every bit of tension was driven out and Aziraphale was relaxed and happy again. 

Missing Crowley was a constant ache, a faithful unseen companion that dogged his steps day in and day out. And little by little, he got used to it. It shrunk, in a sense; its claws not quite so sharp, its presence not quite so menacing. It never went away, not for a day, not even for a moment, but he could live with it. He could.

And he did. For six long years, he held his head up and carried on.

Until one day, he couldn’t. 

It was the bloody scarf that did it, unearthed during an overzealous bout of cleaning. He’d stuffed the thing into the back of his closet years before, unable to deal with the memories it brought back. After their first kiss, Crowley had gotten into the habit of always putting it on him, claiming it was his good luck charm. Aziraphale recalled countless times that Crowley had wound the scarf around his neck, smoothed it down, and then (always, always) leaned in for a kiss. It was as close to being hugged by Crowley as anything could be.

And the years hadn’t diminished the power of those memories, it seemed. Aziraphale felt the tears well up in his throat as he stood there with the scarf in his hands, feeling its familiar texture. A hundred, a thousand memories assaulted him at once. With trembling hands he folded the scarf in half, looped it around his neck, carefully smoothed the ends down. 

The tears finally overflowed when he buried his nose in the soft fabric, inhaling the familiar scent.

_ Oh, Crowley, my love, _ he thought as he sobbed.  _ I can’t do this anymore. I have to let you go. I’ll never forget you, my beloved, my only one, but it’s time for me to heal, now. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"And that, by a roundabout route, brings you to my office,” the therapist observed.

Aziraphale just nodded, out of words, flayed open and raw.

“You’ve been very brave, Aziraphale,” the woman said kindly, laying a friendly hand on his arm. “You’ve been so very strong, for so long. But it’s been long enough. You don’t have to be strong anymore, you don’t have to carry this weight all by yourself. It’s time to rest, now.”

Azirapahle wanted desperately to believe her, to believe that perhaps the worst was over and things would get easier from here on. 

And looking into her kind eyes, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time passed, as it always had, and Aziraphale kept seeing his therapist. Kept scratching open all those painful, half-healed wounds, scraping out the infection, cleaning it and bandaging it and praying that this time, finally, it would heal properly.

And perhaps it did. With the passage of weeks, then months, Aziraphale felt the darkness start to lift that had been oppressing him for so long (six years and… how many months now? How many weeks, how many days? He always knew, could always tell you exactly how much time had passed since his world collapsed).

But time, well, time was finally becoming a healer, it seemed. Sometimes Aziraphale even found himself smiling, and after a bit more time, he managed to smile without feeling guilty about it. He could remember Crowley fondly now, not just with pain. Could look at Crowley’s photo without feeling a knife in his chest, could wrap his scarf around his neck and feel a warm embrace rather than a stranglehold.

His life was finally, finally getting back to some sort of normal.

So, of course, it couldn’t stay that way. No, the universe would not allow Azirapahle Fell to get complacent. Whenever it looked like he was getting too comfortable, it just had to kick him in the nuts.

It was a Tuesday again, ironically, and he was out to lunch at his favourite little sushi place - their special offer was still running, six years later, and he was nothing if not a creature of habit.

But on this Tuesday, the gods or whatever powers that be were in a cruel mood, because as he was about to leave, a storm broke. And this time, he didn’t have an umbrella.

He dithered in the cafe for a while, hoping that the rain would let up, but he finally had to concede defeat. He would have to make a run for it.

And of course, his treacherous mind wouldn’t fail to remind him of another Tuesday, another rainstorm, another man getting thoroughly soaked.

How long now? How long, Mr. Fell, who has forgotten about any conventional measure of years?

Six years, six months and six days. 

God, he had to  _ stop _ this. Had to stop marking time by the years, months and days since he last saw Crowley. It wasn’t healthy. 

And yet. That day was far more important to him than the supposed birthday of a carpenter from Galilee. He could heal, yes, he could move on, but he would never forget. 

He pushed open the door to the shop, shrugging out of his jacket and tutting angrily at the state of it. He hung it up carefully on the coat rack, along with his scarf, and made his way upstairs. Pushed the door of his flat open, untied his shoelaces, wincing at the disgusting feeling of wet socks on his feet. 

He felt his breath catch.

There, as if they’d never left… 

A pair of shiny black snakeskin boots.

  
  


“Hi, angel.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all is revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all asked for it, so here it is!

“Hi, angel.”

What. The. Fuck. 

Aziraphale stepped back outside the flat, pulled the door shut behind him. 

That was it, the hallucinations had started; he was officially losing his mind. 

Either that, or someone was playing a very cruel joke. 

After a few deep breaths, he opened the door again. Yes, the boots were still there. 

“Aziraphale? Angel?”

Yes, the voice too. 

For the first time, he raised his eyes… and there he was. Crowley. Standing in the door to the kitchen, all black clothes and fancy sunglasses, looking for all the world as if he’d never left. 

Aziraphale took a few careful steps forward. Raised a hand tentatively, brushed his fingertips across Crowley’s cheek. He felt the rasp of stubble and the give of skin over solid bone. A face he knew as well as his own. That shy little half-smile, so familiar; so painfully, achingly familiar. 

“Is it really you?” he asked, almost to himself. 

“It’s me, angel,” Crowley said, lifting his sunglasses to perch on his head. And yes, there they were, those one-of-a-kind eyes. A bit more lined, perhaps, the crows’ feet in the corners etched a little deeper by the passage of time, but still the same teardrop-pupilled pools of molten gold he’d lost himself in so many, many times before.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt, this was his Crowley. 

A storm of emotions threatened to overwhelm Aziraphale. Relief, confusion, joy, shock, fear… his head was swimming with it all.

In the end, it was anger that won out. He drew his hand back and gave Crowley a hearty slap.

Crowley brought a hand up to his reddening cheek, surprise written all over his face.

“What the fuck, Crowley?” Aziraphale yelled. “What. The. Fuck?! Do you have any idea?  _ Any idea _ what I’ve been through? How fucking  _ dare  _ you?!”

“Okay, guess I deserve that,” Crowley mumbled.

“Six and a half years, Crowley.  _ Six and a half fucking years! _ ”

“Angel, I can-”

“Don’t you angel me!” Aziraphale cut him off. “Do you know what I’ve been through? Do you have the  _ faintest _ idea? I thought you were dead! I grieved for you, Crowley! My heart was broken into a million fucking little pieces and here you come and I’m supposed to just, what, carry on like, like…”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s wildly flailing hands in both of his own. 

“Ang- Aziraphale,” he said. “Please. I’m so, so sorry, I never meant-”

“Oh, that’s rich!” Aziraphale interrupted again. “Why didn’t you say? You never meant! That cuts a lot of thin ice, that does. Makes it all okay, doesn’t it?” His voice was dripping sarcasm; he was hurting, hurting so bad, and he wanted to lash out in retaliation. Make Crowley suffer the same way he’d suffered.

“Aziraphale, please,” Crowley said again. “Give me a chance to explain. If… if you never want to talk to me again after, that’s fine.” he paused. “No, I lie, it’s not fine, I’ll be fucking devastated, but I’ll deal with it. Just hear me out, okay?”

“Fine,” Aziraphale relented. He walked over to his chair and sat down primly. “Talk. I’m listening.”

Crowley took a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh, then collapsed on the sofa. Some small part of Aziraphale’s brain that wasn’t completely overwhelmed by emotion noted with amusement that Crowley still hadn’t the faintest idea how to sit on a chair. The thought was far too fond for the situation, so he shut it down immediately.

Crowley ran a hand across his face, rubbing his eyes, and then started to speak.

“The first thing you have to know is that I never wanted to leave. And I especially didn’t want to leave the way I did, without a word of warning or explanation.”

Aziraphale didn’t answer, just gave him a look that asked  _ so why did you, then? _

“I wanted to… No, I  _ had _ to, to keep you safe, to keep myself alive. If I’d come back here, contacted you in any way. If I gave my position away… It would have gone so badly. Fuck, it was such a mess.”

“Crowley, you’re not making any sense,” Aziraphale said, exasperated.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said. “Let me start earlier. You remember my bosses? Hastur and Ligur?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Well, they were into some shady shit, had been for a long time. Tax dodging, illegal imports, that sort of thing, using the company as a front. I knew about it, but what could I do, right?”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely surprised; Crowley’s bosses had never struck him as people with the most reliable moral compass.

“So anyway, a year or so before I left, things started getting worse. More secretive, more… I don’t know how to describe it. I was awful.”

Aziraphale nodded. He remembered those times, the kind of state Crowley had been in when he got home some nights.

“So anyway, it turned out the company had been  _ acquired _ by a new big boss, and this guy was one of the big crime lords of London. Went by the name of Lucifer, and that’s all anyone knew about him. They said that if you got close to him, you died, simple as that.”

“Good Lord, Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “Do you mean to tell me you were working for… what, the mob?”

“Close enough. Lucifer wasn’t part of a syndicate or anything, he was on his own, but so powerful no-one could touch him.”

“And you just stuck around? Seriously?” Aziraphale was appalled.

“Y’see, that’s the thing, I didn’t know,” Crowley explained. “Fuck, you really think I’d stick around working for a criminal mastermind? I found all this out later. While I was… gone.”

“Yes, getting back to that…”

“I’m getting there, give me a chance.”

“Sorry, carry on.”

“So anyway. One day -  _ that  _ day - I was working through some emails and shit when I somehow found my way onto a server I clearly wasn’t supposed to have access to. And you know what a curious bugger I am; I clicked on a few random things and… Fuck, angel, it was awful.”

“Why? What did you find?”

“The stuff Lucifer was involved in - got Hastur and Ligur involved in too. Me too, suppose, by extension. I mean, some of it was… drugs, arms, that sort of thing. Standard criminal overlord stuff, I guess. But then, there was one folder that…”

Crowley’s face took on an expression of such abject horror that Aziraphale couldn’t help but reach out and take his hand, trying to give him some comfort.

“It was kids,” Crowley said, tears in his eyes. “They were… kidnapping, trafficking… fuck, I don’t even want to know.  _ Kids _ , angel. You can’t… not kids.”

“No. Oh, Crowley, no, please,” Aziraphale breathed.

Crowley nodded. 

“I... kinda lost it. Copied everything onto a hard drive, went on lunch, went straight to Scotland Yard. And that’s where it all went to shit.

“Somehow, they must have known. I can’t imagine how. But I got a call from Hastur while I was with the DI, he made all sorts of vague threats. Said Lucifer was looking for me, which was the scariest damn thing of all. If he got hold of me, angel… if he got hold of  _ you _ . He wouldn’t hesitate, not for one moment, to use you to get to me. God, I was so glad that Hastur and the rest never knew about you. I couldn’t take that chance, couldn’t let him come near you. 

“So I had to disappear. It was a whole insane fucking thing. Luckily I had the cops on my side. We led Lucifer on a crazy chase across half of fucking Europe, I swear. Entrapping a criminal mastermind is a lot harder than James Bond makes it look, let me tell you. It was terrifying.”

“But did they get him?” Aziraphale asked, now so invested in the story that he almost forgot it was his own life they were talking about.

At this, at last, Crowley gave a small smile. “Wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t, angel. I wouldn’t lead that devil to your door. We got him, and his whole filthy trafficking network, all safely locked up behind bars. And Lucifer, he’s dead. Shot by a stray bullet from one of his own cronies.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” Aziraphale sighed. “I wouldn’t trust a man like that to stay in prison.”

“Tell me about it,” Crowley agreed.

There was a heavy silence for a while. Finally Crowley broke it.

“So you see, angel. I had to go, to keep you safe. I couldn’t risk letting them near you. I’m so, so sorry. For all the pain, and all the… everything. But I can’t live in a world where you aren’t.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I understand that. I guess. But I do wish you could have just… I don’t know, let me know somehow. Through the police, or something.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “God, I know. It was hell, angel. Every day away from you… it was like I’d left my heart behind. I was a dead man walking. The only thing that kept me going was knowing I could keep you safe, could keep you alive so that one day when the whole stupid ordeal was over I could see you again. Even if… even if you wouldn’t want me anymore. Even if you hated me, or you’d moved on and found someone else. At least you’d be there, safe, and hopefully happy.”

Crowley was tearing up as he spoke, rubbing at his eyes irritably, as if ashamed to let Aziraphale see him cry. Aziraphale, for his part, wasn’t even trying to hide the tears.

“Oh, my dearest,” he said, reaching out and taking both of Crowley’s hands in his own. “I could never hate you. And I doubt I’ll ever find anyone else either. But,” and this was important to say, “you hurt me, Crowley. Even though your intentions were good. I’m so glad you’re here, and alive, but I’m also angry, and confused, and I don’t know if I can trust you anymore. We can’t just go back to the way things were.”

Crowley looked at him, his expression hurt, but somehow understanding at the same time.

“I know, angel, I know. But maybe… I don’t know, maybe we can start over? Get to know each other again, see if we still want to do this?” 

“I think I’d like that,” Aziraphale said.

“Here, gimme your phone,” Crowley said, gesturing with his hand. Aziraphale handed it over, and Crowley typed something in.

“I put my new number in there. When you're ready to see me again, give me a call, okay?”

Aziraphale nodded dumbly and followed Crowley to the door, stood by him as he put on those damned boots, walked him downstairs and to the door of the shop.

“Crowley,” he finally managed, just before they would have to part. “Could I maybe, just…” he held his arms open. Crowley collapsed forward into him, pulled him into a close embrace.

It was almost overwhelming, finding himself wrapped in Crowley’s arms, breathing his still-familiar scent. Crowley’s arms were tight around him, almost uncomfortably so, but Aziraphale didn’t complain. It felt too good. It still, despite everything, felt too much like  _ home _ .

“God, I missed you,” Crowley murmured into his hair.

“I missed you too,” Aziraphale admitted. “More than you can imagine.”

He carefully disentangled himself from the embrace, knowing if he didn’t, he would insist Crowley come back in and never leave again. And he wasn’t ready for that, much as he wanted to be.

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley said with a lopsided grin. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Mind how you go, my dear. We’ll talk soon, I’m sure.”

\---

Aziraphale didn’t call Crowley the next day. Instead, he called his therapist, explained that he had to see her urgently. She managed to squeeze him in that afternoon.

“What do I do?” he asked her after recounting the whole story. “What on earth do I do with this?” He was pacing up and down her office, far too agitated to sit still.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” she answered gently. “That’s not how this works.”

“I know.” He plopped down on the couch, head in his hands. “But I have no idea how to deal with him being back. It’s like… look, you know what it did to me the first time around. I can’t go through that again.”

“Let me ask you this,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “If I could wave a magic wand and take you back 24 hours, make it so that it never happened, and things just went on the way they were before… would you want me to?”

Aziraphale just groaned.

\---

Getting to know Crowley again, allowing himself to grow close to the man he still loved and always would, was not straightforward. It was a careful dance - two steps forward, one step back, mind you don’t tread on my toes - more complex than a gavotte and twice as ridiculous, with the added bonus of having to make up the steps as they went along.

Things would never be the same again, they both knew that. Crowley had changed, and he had too, but... the core of who they were together was still exactly the same. The sense that they were two pieces of a single whole, the feeling of  _ belonging _ ; that hadn’t changed one bit. 

There were new issues to deal with - new traumas, new resentments and reprimands, six and a half years worth of experiences that they hadn’t shared and somehow had to try and catch up on.

There were fights, sometimes; when the old pain would surface and Aziraphale would lash out, and Crowley would call him self-centred and ungrateful, and both of them would say things they regretted even as the words tumbled from their mouths.

There was, always, sooner or later, reconciliation. Apologies, explanations, forgiveness asked and granted. Always.

It was like therapy all over again, Aziraphale mused. Opening up those old, festering sores, lancing the abscess and draining the pus and scrubbing it raw until every last bit of dirt was gone.

It was painful. But it was healing.

\---

In time, things became normal again; or at least, they found a new normal. A better normal than before, even.

Aziraphale could joke about having been abandoned, and it really was just a joke; they would both laugh and move on. Crowley could come home late without Aziraphale feeling like he needed to alert the police. They started and ended every day together, the way they were always meant to be.

Crowley got a new job, something simple and joyful, working with plants at a local garden centre. He came home smiling in the evenings, tired and covered in dirt, yes, but happy. Aziraphale would tease him about his filthy shoes (gone were the fancy snakeskin boots, now replaced with a selection of sneakers and rubber wellies), and Crowley would laugh and kiss him and smear dirt all over his face and hair. And then take great pleasure in dragging him to the bathroom to clean him up.

Their lives took on a comfortable rhythm, gently curling around each other like the braided stems of the  _ Ficus benjamina _ that adorned their kitchen counter. It was inconceivable that they should ever be parted again.

So they did the logical thing and got married. It was little more than a formality at that point; they could hardly be more devoted to each other than they already were. But still, it felt important; it felt  _ right _ . Every time Aziraphale saw the ring sitting on his finger, or ran his thumb over it, it was like feeling the tug of an anchor rope. The reassurance of  _ for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part _ .

They didn’t know it at the time, but they would have many, many years to live those vows; to prove their devotion to each other over and over and over again. And indeed, they would rise to the occasion. Nothing but the Grim Reaper himself would ever separate them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the AMAZING comments, you all made my day, week and month!
> 
> If you haven't done so yet, please listen to Welly Boots. That song owns my soul. [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UErTIqZ8gyE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UErTIqZ8gyE)


End file.
